Bourn’s Edge (2 page)

By then, her miaowing tomcat had put in his request for supper. She opened a sachet of cat food. Normally she found the smell appetising, but tonight, it turned her stomach. Then she popped next door to ask her neighbour if she would look after Murphy. Arrangements for his care made, she focussed on herself.

First: money
. She nipped down to the nearest bank’s hole in the wall and withdrew as much cash as the machine would let her.
Next: supplies
. She pulled out her travel bag and set about filling it. Clothes, underwear, shoes, nighties, toiletries, books to read, food. It was difficult to anticipate what she might need, though, especially as she didn’t know where she was going or for how long. She pursed her lips and added another box of tampons. When she’d finished packing, she put the now heavy travel bag by the front door.

Emails let Louise know Cassie wouldn’t be able to make her birthday party after all and told Danny and Justin that their cinema trip was off. Cassie didn’t go into detail, just said she had to leave town for a while. She unplugged her computer and wished it were a laptop so she could take it with her.
Ah well
.

The Library had an answering machine, so she left a message on it for her boss. It crossed her mind that she had messed him around so much lately, her job might not be waiting for her when she got back.
If
she got back.
Oh don’t be such a pessimist
.

There was no way to avoid speaking to her parents. Bracing herself, she dialled their number. When her father answered, she told him she wouldn’t be able to make lunch this Sunday, and why. As she had expected, the news left him aghast.

“What do you mean you can’t tell us where you’re going or for how long?” His voice rose in alarm, and she could hear her mother making worried-sounding noises in the background.

“How can I tell you, when I don’t know myself? Sorry, Dad. It’s probably better that you don’t know anyway. Less risk to you and Mum.”

“It’s that Armitage fellow, isn’t it? Nasty piece of work. I told you no good would come of testifying against him.”

She sucked in her breath. “Some good
did
come of it, Dad. He’s in Winson Green.”

“And my daughter’s in fear for her life. Doesn’t seem like a fair exchange to me.”

Cutting the conversation short, she told her parents she loved them and would be in touch again as soon as she could, and rang off. Then she grabbed her travel bag and pulled her flat door closed behind her. The lock snicked shut with an air of finality, cutting off Murphy’s last indignant miaow. Her heart sank, and she wondered when she would ever see her home or her cat again.

Since then she had been driving, ignoring the satnav and picking her route on a whim. She had chosen winding B roads heading west in the main, which made the going slow. If she didn’t know where she was going, Armitage couldn’t either—at least, that was the theory. Sleepy villages comprising a pub and a cluster of houses were the norm. The last town of any size had been Ludlow, its lamp-lit streets deserted apart from the odd fox or hedgehog. She didn’t think she had crossed the border yet but several signposts to Offa’s Dyke meant it couldn’t be far.

They called this part of England the Welsh Marches.
Marshes, more like
. She had lost count of the number of bridges she had driven across, their rivers rain-swollen, and for the last hour the windscreen wipers had been working flat out. Shropshire was supposed to have beautiful scenery, but she had seen little sign of it so far. Perhaps when the sun came up . . .

The landscape was becoming increasingly hilly, the engine beginning to labour. She changed down a gear and suppressed another yawn. The rhythmic
thump
of the wipers was hypnotic, but she preferred it to the phone-in shows that were all she could find on the radio at this hour.

In the hope the night air might keep her alert she opened the window. She would have to stop soon, find a place to stay, get the car repaired. Those were her priorities. Oh, and ring the police again, talk to this DS Edlin.

The B road climbed. Woods closed in on either side, until it was like driving through a tunnel. Cassie was beginning to think she would never reach the end of it, when all at once the trees thinned, and she emerged into the open once more. The rain had stopped, and she turned off the wipers.

Without warning, the road went into a series of hairpin bends, following the curve of the hill, and she had her work cut out. At last the road straightened, and she found she had somehow got turned around and was facing east. Because that glimmer of light on the horizon must be the sun, mustn’t it?

It was. Slowly the rim of red became an orange segment, then a yellow-ochre semicircle, and the dim, grey outlines of her surroundings changed, became suffused with colour. As the light intensified birdsong flooded through her open window, and the strange shapes up ahead became houses with chimney pots and TV aerials, and, sprouting from their midst, a church spire.

“Bourn’s Edge,” proclaimed the sign at the side of the road. She slowed and peered at the houses on either side.
There must be somewhere to stay
.

She was beginning to think she was out of luck when she spotted the B & B sign. It was in the downstairs front window of a cosy-looking house with a fenced front garden in which sat an odd scarecrow-like figure on a wooden bench. The red letters below the sign spelled out “Vacancy.”

With a feeling of relief, Cassie parked outside the front gate. She undid her seat belt and was about to get out when a thought struck her. A quick check of her watch confirmed it was much too early to knock at the front door and ask for a room. So with a sigh, she pushed back the driver’s seat as far as it would go, made herself comfortable, and closed her eyes.

Adrenalin wouldn’t let her sleep. She tried to calm her thoughts, but images of the white van growing larger in her rear-view window kept surfacing. Frustrated, she took several calming breaths and focussed instead on that instant when the rising sun had breathed life and colour into the wooded slopes around her. And moments later, she was asleep.

THE PRISON GUARD checked he was unobserved before stepping into the cell. “Here you are, Mr Armitage,” he murmured. “Make sure you hide these somewhere safe.” He handed Armitage a mobile phone and a charger.

Armitage accepted them with a grin. All phone calls were supposed to be monitored by the prison authorities, but with this he could bypass them. “Good man.”

“Anything else I can do for you?” The guard’s eyes were greedy. Evidently the taste of money had left him wanting more.

Armitage glanced round the cramped cell, with its basin, toilet, and modesty screen, tiny TV, and electric kettle with a loose connection. Of the two narrow beds, only one showed signs of use. In a prison filled to bursting point, with two beds crammed into cells designed for one, sole occupation was an unheard of luxury. But Armitage had soon persuaded the other inmate round to his way of thinking—he was now an in-patient in the Health Care Centre.

“I suppose getting me out of here’s out of the question?”

“’Fraid so.” The guard’s grin became rueful.

“Pity. Well then. I’ll let you know.”

“Righto, Mr. Armitage.”

When the guard had gone, locking the cell door behind him, Armitage dialled his mistress. There was no reply.

He checked his watch.
She should be up by now. Maybe she stayed somewhere else last night. Bitch! If she thinks she can start seeing someone else
. . .

He rang another number he knew off by heart. A muffled voice answered. From the sound of it, Rigby was in the middle of breakfast.

“Rigby? No, don’t talk. I’m paying.” Armitage intended to keep the conversation short but not sweet. “Listen. Get someone round to Tracey’s pronto. She’s not answering her phone. I expect her to be there, waiting. Give her a good slapping to make the point, okay?”

He shifted to the next item on his mental agenda. “Now, the Lewis girl. What’s the news?” His grin of anticipation faded. “What?” He listened to Rigby’s excuses with growing disbelief. “The van’s a write-off? What am I, made of money?” Rigby didn’t seem to know an answer wasn’t required. He promised to do better next time. “You’d damned well
better
.”

Armitage thought for a moment. “You’ve got her home address?” The answer was in the affirmative, but it seemed Rigby had already been there and found signs that she’d fled. “Fuck!” The little bitch must know he was after her. Would she go to the police? It wouldn’t do her much good. And her fear would make the chase all the sweeter.

Rigby asked if he was still there.

“Yeah. Just thinking. Find out who her friends and family are, then give Parsons their details.” The request to bring in the Private Detective puzzled Rigby. Armitage rolled his eyes. “Use your bloody loaf, man. He’s got contacts at all the phone companies. She’s bound to ring people sooner or later, and when she does we’ve got her.”

Sounds of comprehension met this, and he grunted. “I’ll ring you in a couple of days for an update. In the meantime, don’t contact me on this number. Okay?”

But this was Rigby they were talking about. So after he had rung off, Armitage switched off the phone, just to be sure.

Chapter 3

Tarian thrust her sword up under her opponent’s ribcage and guided it towards his heart. As his sword fell to the grassy sward, he stared at her with shocked eyes. She gave the blade one final twist and withdrew it. Clasping his abdomen with both hands, he slumped to his knees, then on to his face.

She held her bloody blade high. “Take heed, enemies of the Queen,” she roared “Or this will be your fate too.”

The watching nobles let out a cheer, then Mab herself thrust them aside and strolled towards Tarian.

“Well done, as always, my champion,” she called, her smile lascivious. A kill always excited the Queen of the Fae. “We must celebrate your victory. The rest of you, leave me.” She waved a lazy hand in dismissal.

Servants flung the corpse into a cart and drove it away for healing. Chattering nobles mounted their horses and rode off after it. Only Tarian and Mab’s mounts remained, tethered to a tree. Tarian’s mare nickered, dropped its head, and began to crop the grass.

Mab halted in front of Tarian and, careless of her blood-spattered tunic, pulled her close. She kissed Tarian hard enough to bruise her lips and pulled her down onto the grass . . .

Tarian gasped, opened her eyes, and sat up. Her heart slowed as she took in the familiar surroundings of her bedroom.

When she had first bought the house on the edge of Bourn Forest, the roof was in need of repair, and what little furniture it contained was riddled with worm. She had saved what she could and burned the rest, before refurbishing and refurnishing the place. Most of the furniture came from a local auction house, and none of the pieces matched. It was a far cry from Mab’s palace, where the bedroom assigned to the Queen’s champion sported luxurious wall hangings, ornately carved furnishings, and a four-poster bed fit for the Queen to share whenever the whim took her.

Tarian much preferred her new abode, the result of hard work not magic, if you discounted the money she’d used to buy it in the first place.

It was nine a.m.

That’s what happens when you hunt late at night. You oversleep and dream of Faerie
.

She washed, dressed, and went downstairs. After a boisterous greeting from Anwar and Drysi, she unlocked the back door. While they bounded round the back garden and relieved themselves, she set about making breakfast. The dogs could finish off the last of the venison, which was past its best. For herself she made porridge.

She ate while reading the local free paper and planned her day. She would have to scald and scrape the boar today, then joint it—an arduous task but one that could not be shirked. As for painting . . . She glanced out the kitchen window. The light was good this morning. She would work on the painting she had started yesterday.

Something snagged her attention, and she stood and went to the window. A hawthorn tree overlooked her back garden, and a huge black bird was sitting on the top branch, its gaze fixed on her house. It couldn’t be coincidence that the same crow had been watching her three days in a row, could it?

She extended her senses and found, as she had feared, that the big black bird was much more than that.
One of Mab’s creatures
.

Tarian went through to the hall, took down the short bow and quiver of arrows that hung on the wall, and carried them out into the back garden. The crow watched her, a gleam in its beady eyes, its head cocked to one side.

“Are you spying on me?” she shouted.

It cawed, a harsh mocking sound that set her teeth on edge, then fluffed its feathers and let them settle.

She nocked an arrow on her bowstring. “Has Mab told you of my prowess at archery?” The bird danced along the branch a little way before settling again. “I see that she has.”

It cawed at her again and began to preen.

“Tell your mistress,” called Tarian, “that I don’t take kindly to being spied upon.” She raised the bow, which was deceptively powerful for its size, and drew it to its full extent. “Remind her that she promised not to meddle in my affairs as long as I stayed out of Faerie. Spying counts as meddling.”

With that, she released her arrow. It sped through the spot where a second before the crow had perched. Frustrated, she searched for it and found it sitting on a lower branch, eyes alight with mischief. She reached for another arrow.

This time the crow didn’t wait for Tarian to shoot. It launched itself off the branch and flapped towards her. She half expected it to try to peck out her eyes but it circled above her, wings flapping, dipping lazily until it was almost within her grasp before soaring skywards again. It was taunting her.

Enough of this
.